Preface

 

Preface

"He Quoted Gita, Then He Hit Me" is not a cry for sympathy. It is the echo of countless unheard voices wrapped in silence. It is the unmasking of love that bruises and spirituality that manipulates. It is the story of Rashmi — a woman who loved twice and lost twice, but this time, she decided not to lose herself.

Rashmi was not looking for a savior. She had already braved one broken marriage, was raising her son with quiet dignity, and had stitched her life back together piece by piece. When Damyank — a man cloaked in the charm of a monk, quoting Gita verses with practiced ease — entered her life, it felt spiritual, magical even. He spoke of karma, of soulmates, of destinies intertwined. She, ever the believer in redemption and hope, opened the door to her heart and her home.

Their love was born in the eeriness of the pandemic, walking through empty streets, sharing long phone calls, planning dreams, whispering fears. But this love, as Rashmi would come to realize, had an edge sharper than she imagined. Before marriage, Damyank needed “assurance” — he made sure intimacy happened so she wouldn’t leave. The spiritual turned transactional. The divine, carnal.

They married in haste — "in the name of muhurat," he said. Rashmi shifted cities, supported his dreams, even bought the flight ticket to the UK with her own alimony. She sold her past to invest in their future.

Then came the first slap. A day before Diwali. A festival of light met with the darkness of a raised hand. She was shocked, but silent.

In the UK, the abuse didn't stop. It transformed — from denial to blame, from justification to entitlement. He wanted to send money to his mother, despite knowing Rashmi had funded everything. He demanded food served in plates, water every hour, and if she spoke up, she was called “ungrateful,” “disrespectful,” “Westernized.”

She once called the police. He was fined £800 and denied a visa. She forgave him. He never stopped.

This book is Rashmi's voice — not in anger, but in clarity. It’s her journey of discovering strength through self-study, resilience, and motherhood. She became a student of ethical hacking, blockchain, and pentesting — all while cooking, cleaning, and raising a baby. Damyank, who once promised to take over household responsibilities, gave up after 10 days. Rashmi did not.

It is also a story of the complexity of love — that a woman can still love a man who broke her, that healing doesn’t mean forgetting, and that closure sometimes comes in chapters, not conclusions.

This is not just Rashmi’s story. It could be yours, your sister’s, your friend’s — or the one you never dared to tell.